Hands
by Ithilwen C. Malfoy
Summary: Harry has nearly always had an obsession with hands’ which he and Severus explore with the help of a Florentine masterpiece. Slash. High R.


Author: Ithilwen C. Malfoy

Rating: High R

Pairing: HP/SS

Summary: 'Harry has nearly always had an obsession with hands' which he and Severus explore with the help of a Florentine masterpiece.

Warning, themes include: slash, wanking, breaking into the Vatican.

Disclaimer: Characters contained in this story are property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros, et al. No infringement of copyright intended, no profit being made.

Notes: At last, I've written a fic that _isn't_ angst!

This story was inspired by my trip to Italy this summer. Severus and Harry visit firstly the Vatican and then the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. They're there at night, in case you're imagining that they're getting away with this surrounded by tourists.

_In honour of a Roman holiday_.

Hands

Harry has nearly always had an obsession with hands. Not his own, of course. He remembers boys' hands stroking him clumsily and men's hands holding a quill, sending a thrill of anticipation shivering through him. He has often wondered whether Darwin realised the full potential of the opposable thumb; to become so much more than just an accident of evolution.

Of course, it hasn't always been sexual. Harry is sure of that. Once it was simply about watching. Effortless, everyday things: Hermione trying to tuck her hair behind her ear, Seamus cracking his knuckles before a game of Gobstones. He'd rarely even found anything attractive, or interesting, about hands before he went to Hogwarts. Dudley and Uncle Vernon's fingers were fat rolls of flesh, lacking definition and always ugly, and Aunt Petunia's were bony, cruel, sharp things. Only once, when their year six class at primary school had been taught by a supply teacher for a week, had Harry found himself gazing, transfixed.

_Bloody faggot,_ Dudley called the teacher – Harry forgets his name. _Shouldn't be allowed to teach, that sort,_ Uncle Vernon announced over breakfast. He was young, barely out of university, and for the first time Harry had felt the flush of silly pre-pubescent longing, intensified when one day he had noticed Harry sitting alone at lunchtime trying to fix his glasses. The lens had dropped out and those long, tapering fingers had handed it back along with a quiet word of concern, an enquiry, was Harry alright?

Harry had felt so warm. Somebody had noticed – _somebody cared_. But then the week was up and there were no more lunchtimes spent helping stack shelves and carry books. It was time to hide behind the dustbins trying not to cry as Dudley and his gang thundered past.

But even then, helpless and in agonies over a schoolboy crush, it hadn't been sexual. It was a nice feeling, to watch fingers flicking through pages, but never, _never_ about sex. But one evening during the summer between his fourth and fifth year at Hogwarts, it had transformed into fists clenched around bedsheets, sweaty dreams and sticky mornings.

Harry was at Grimmauld Place, sitting alone at the top of the first floor stairs, bristling with the self-righteous anger of a fifteen year-old after a row with Hermione and Ron, when the parlour door opened and Harry's fourth worst nightmare strode out. And somehow – Harry didn't know how because he was breathlessly silent – Snape had _known_ he was there. Just before disappearing into the darkness of the hall, Snape looked up as he fastened his cloak with deft, ivory fingers, and as the door closed a few seconds later and Snape slipped away into the street, Harry was ashamed to realise that he was hard in his underwear, and that he could feel a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

From then on his nights were nothing but Potions lessons, and after the school year began, his days too were filled with long, tapering, crooked fingers, stained at the tips, which gripped a quill or a ladle…

Somehow, after that year the hatred had made it easier. At least now when Harry wanked furiously behind the curtains around his bed, biting his lip until he drew blood to stop himself crying out, he could tell himself that _this_, all of _this_, was because he hated Snape, and that it was the thought of killing him that made it so pleasurable. The fact that by the end all Harry could do was writhe and moan and imagine that his fingers were longer and more skilled, he steadfastly ignored.

He would never in a thousand millennia have dreamt that somewhere in the dungeons Snape too lay panting, cursing himself for his weakness and his perversion. He would never have believed that those same tapering fingers of his imagination were gripping and twisting and getting sticky to the sound of Harry's name.

He shook himself out of his lazy, pleasant reverie as those same hands slid around his waist and a warm, lean body drew nearer behind him. "Severus! We're in the Vatican, for -" he stopped himself just in time "- _someone's_ sake."

From over his shoulder there came a low chuckle, but the hands refused to withdraw. "Sorry, Mr. Potter. Does it offend your sensibilities to have me feeling you up under the same roof as the Pope?"

"Yes!" Harry whispered, shivering at the warm breath on the nape of his neck. He batted the hands away and gazed resolutely at the paintings in front of him. "You'll get us… ex-communicated, or something."

"You aren't Catholic."

"Neither are you… Oh. Are you?"

"Nominally. And lapsed," Severus ran a finger lightly over Harry's palm. "It was inherited."

Harry smiled, "Like an heirloom."

"Or a disease," Severus withdrew his hands completely and followed Harry's gaze to the paintings. "What do you think?"

"They're beautiful," Harry admitted.

"…But?"

"I liked Florence better," Harry said apologetically. "I think I'm a bit disappointed, to be honest. It isn't like I imagined in here. It feels… Confined. Like the angel in the Raphael rooms, the one rescuing St. Paul from prison. The bars are painted _over_ it, like someone's trapped it in there." Severus, who knew Harry's feelings on barred windows, placed a hand on his shoulder. "I see why people say it's beautiful, though."

"Are you glad we came?"

Harry nodded, "Yes." He glanced around uneasily, "I still don't think it's right, though. We've _broken into_ the biggest, holiest Church in the world."

"We apparated."

"Same difference. But I'm glad we've seen it. Together, I mean."

Severus' fingers resumed their feather-touch, and Harry could tell he was pleased. "And for my next trick?" he asked quietly in Harry's ear.

"Could we go back to Florence?" Harry asked. "Anywhere, I don't mind. It's just… in the dark this place is like a prison."

Severus nodded and understood. He wrapped an arm round Harry, who shut his eyes and leaned back into his embrace. When he opened them, he found himself in another darkened room.

"Where are we?" he whispered. Severus murmured, '_Lumos' _and there was a flare of light. Harry gasped, "Oh, Severus, not _again_! We're going to get caught. It's the middle of the night!"

"Hush," Severus soothed, his voice all steel and velvet. "We're under an _obscurus_, no one can see us."

Harry felt a small shudder ripple through him as he looked up at the painting before him. It might also have been something to do with the hands which were slowly but determinedly making their way past the buttons of his shirt. "_Severus,_" he whispered as lips brushed against his throat.

"We're certainly no longer in the Vatican," Severus pointed out, tugging on Harry's earlobe gently with his teeth. "I doubt the Pope can see us from here."

Harry moaned as those devilish fingers worked enough buttons open to be able to reach a nipple. "I refuse to shag you at midnight in the middle of the Uffizi!" he hissed.

"Reassuring," Severus murmured, "as it's at least ten minutes past. And who said _anything_ about shagging?" Harry could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "You've just turned twenty-one, by the way. Happy birthday."

"Thank you."

"The pleasure is entirely mine. Though it's good to see you've still got your manners, Mr. Potter, even in the absence of your innocence."

One warm hand slipped past Harry's navel to the button of his jeans and he sucked in a breath, sagging back against the body behind him. "Well, one of us has to be polite. And you know I hate it when you call me that," he said without conviction.

Severus ignored the comment and continued to unzip Harry's fly. "What do you think of this painting?" he asked, as if he didn't know, gesturing at the wall in front of them with his free hand.

"It's -_ nice_," Harry murmured as his breath hitched, his head resting back against Severus' shoulder as fingers dipped briefly below the waistband of his boxers.

"You're cheating, Mr. Potter," came the voice in his ear. "_Eyes open._" Reluctantly Harry opened his eyes, but let his head remain against Severus' collarbone, wriggling his hips impatiently. "So eager it's almost pathetic," the silken voice intoned in his ear, "I think I ought to teach you some patience."

"Oh, sod off."

"I really don't think you want me to," Severus replied, a little smugly. "Now, look. I know this is your favourite painting. Describe it to me."

"Why?" Harry whined needily.

"Play the game."

"Oh, alright," Harry sighed, hips twitching against Severus' unmoving fingers. "It's called Primavera," he began, "which means spring. And it's by Botticelli -"

"I said _describe_, not lecture. Tell me who's in it."

"Right. _Fine_. I don't see why, though, you already know…" Harry's breath caught as Severus began to stroke delicately, "… _Oh. _Okay, I'll play along, I promise – _Severus..."_

"Tell me."

Harry took a deep breath, failing to prevent the shaking in his voice, "There – just there to the right – that's Flora… And up there it's Cupid. And Mercury, over to the left… oh! _God_…" Harry hissed as Severus' grip tightened.

"No," Severus chided, "You can't see Him there."

"Supercilious bastard," Harry groaned.

"Sh," Severus said soothingly, the wicked smirk evident in his voice. "Which of the figures do you like the most?"

"The Graces," Harry panted, no longer caring why Severus was asking questions he already knew the answer to.

"Tell me why."

Writhing a little, because Severus' hand wrapped around him was entirely too still, Harry fought to control his voice before he answered, "They're beautiful, they… they look like angels, dancing. Like they… could float away."

"You admire their innocence?" Severus asked, but Harry made no reply. "Go on," this time Severus began to move again, his pace steady.

"I-it's the left-hand two. The way the look at each other, as though there's only the two of them there," Harry closed his eyes and let his head fall back again.

"Eyes _open_," Severus reminded him. "What about their bodies, through all that transparency?"

"No, no," Harry shook his head, "that's not it."

"Is it their faces? _So beautiful_," Severus whispered, and Harry was sure the comment was meant for him. He shook his head again. "Is it their _hands_?" Severus asked, adding a little twist to his movements. Harry thrust his hips forward into Severus' fingers, trying to force him to pick up his pace. He obeyed, a little.

"Yes," Harry moaned, "… hands."

"Fingers twined and grasping, but delicate," Severus murmured in his ear, "languid and elegant. You like it because it's a lover's touch."

Harry nodded again and thrust helplessly, a high, keening sound beginning at the back of his throat, "_Severus_."

"You like it because you think about Botticelli drawing from life, and you imagine models – male, of course; young artists' boys – hand in hand, waiting for the artist to begin. You like it because it's real." Harry became vaguely aware through the fog of his mind that Severus was hard – and had been for a while – and was moving against him through their robes. "You like it because their fingers are long and thin, and they're always long and thin in your dreams."

"_Yes_," Harry gasped, trying to find something of Severus to hold onto.

"It makes you think of tangled, sweaty limbs, and it makes you think of me, because I made you hold my hand that way the last time I fucked you…"

With a cry, Harry grabbed Severus' free hand and held on whilst he came, spilling himself all over Severus' fingers. A second later, he felt Severus thrust sharply against him and reach his own shuddering climax. For long moments Harry felt nothing but the pleasant, warm haze which had wrapped itself around his consciousness, and eventually he became aware of Severus' fingers tracing faint patterns on his hip and wrist. They rested languidly against each other, and Harry listened to Severus' panting breaths in his ear grow deeper.

Turning bonelessly to rest his cheek against Severus', Harry pressed a lazy kiss to the slightly rough skin of his jaw. Severus said nothing, but rested his hands at the curve of Harry's back. They remained, almost statues except for the slow circle of Severus' fingers, and Harry had a sudden desire to see himself painted, and be able to watch himself in Severus' arms, both of them and the moment immortalised and uninterrupted.

After a few minutes of deep, settled silence, Harry opened his eyes and said, "I think we should definitely go back to the hotel now."

Severus opened his own eyes languidly with the sated look which Harry adored and raised an eyebrow, "You're insatiable, Potter."

"And I'll tire you out and leave you in an exhausted heap if you keep calling me that."

Severus chuckled hoarsely, "I was rather counting on it."

Harry grinned, "So was I." He leaned into Severus' embrace and was suddenly very, very grateful for hands.

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_Finis -_ feedback is always appreciated.


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